The blank page - something I long for incessantly, then feel dread the moment I face it.
Do I measure up? Am I worthwhile? Did I make a mistake?
All this navel gazing is giving me a neck ache.
I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
If I write, I feel presumptuous. It’s already been said much better.
If I don’t write, this fire in my belly turns into heartburn.
I can’t run from a calling.
I can’t deem myself called.
People believe in me, but I wish they wouldn’t.
I suppose they think they are doing me a favor, always encouraging me to live up to my potential.
What I’d really like is to be put in my place.
If someone would just tell me that I’m nothing special, I could go back to the peaceful partition of the ordinary.
Success these days comes seems to only come with a carefully constructed promotional package, and I’m not into that.
Why should I be?
This country has enough ego to stretch out and circle the globe a dozen times, I think.
Then again, if I was put on this Earth with a design, if calling is real, then who am I to fight it?
I remember a time when I felt sure that a spirit was leading me down a certain path.
If I were to listen to that spirit today, it would tell me that I’m on a detour right now – this social work degree is pulling me away from the real work I’m called to do.
I’m not sure I believe in calling.
This Spirit that has never led me astray, is she a figment of my imagination?
I’m not sure I deem myself called.
It’s better to have a backup plan, anyway.
I am addicted to the freefall.
I moved to China, left the security of the SBC, and started school smack dab in the middle of a state I never planned to live in.
I have no delusions, I know security is an illusion.
What else is there?
I’m too tired for adventure, to full of wanderlust to settle.
Too religious to ignore this still small voice.
My soul too world wizened to believe in the fairy tale ending.
Mostly, too small minded to think anything more is possible.
Especially from a dog like me.